


Addicted

by days_of_storm



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Best Friends, Complicated Relationships, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Dysfunctional Family, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Neglect, Pain, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 20:54:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8342338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days_of_storm/pseuds/days_of_storm
Summary: A little more than a year after John's wedding, Sherlock still struggles with John's absense and his drug addiction.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is sort of a fix-it fic that had been nagging at the back of my mind for a while. I wrote the beginning and then it just ran away with me.
> 
> This fic does not draw Mary as an evil person, but tries to be fairly consistent with the show's characterisation (so far). She loves both John and Sherlock and knows that she cannot truly come between them. However, that doesn't mean that things can just go back to how they were pre-hiatus. 
> 
> Baby Watson is mentioned. I call her Wilhelmina, Mina for short, for obvious reasons. This is not a John/Sherlock as parents fic, though. 
> 
> It's a bit darker than what I usually write, but it is a dark topic, so... 
> 
> Let me know what you think.

Sherlock stared out of the window. He could feel John’s questioning gaze wandering up and down his back. He had a theory. 

John never really managed to get things right, and if he did, it was because he had been lucky and Sherlock had made sure to distribute enough clues that even John couldn’t avoid coming to the right conclusions.

Only this time, this time John had reached his conclusions all by himself. And he was right, only he didn’t know it yet.

John was right: Sherlock wanted him. He wanted him so much he thought his body would just give in and one day take him into John’s bedroom without his brain’s consent. At least he had been afraid of that when John had still lived with him.

Sherlock wasn’t used to wanting anyone. Or anything. Other than to solve the puzzle, do the work, find the culprit. He lived for those things and he found alternative solutions when he couldn’t get them. And he had been getting all of these things and yet, he had found himself shaking, waking up cold as ice on the carpet in grey London mornings, yearning for only one thing. 

The thing, which was in fact a kaleidoscope of fragments of the same thing, was John Watson. It was John Watson’s voice, his eyes, his frown when he looked at him as if he tried to avoid saying something that would hurt Sherlock. He did say those things sometimes, but he had gotten better at understanding what hurt him, so he used his knowledge and his power more knowingly. But he also knew how to praise Sherlock, how to coax answers from him even when Sherlock thought he did not have any. It was his gentle chiding and his encouragement, and his utter astonishment when Sherlock managed to solve a case. It was his voice, annoying him, making him smile, asking him to eat or to stop being such an idiot. His unconscious cough, spelling out both authority and insecurity, irritating Sherlock to no end. His gentle voice when he woke him up, his deep voice when he was upset with him, but not upset enough to leave. The small gasps after a sprint or Sherlock’s quick deductions, recited more quickly than necessary, hoping that John would be impressed, that he would smile, laugh incredulously, appreciatively, loving him. It was his laughter that Sherlock loved most. That he craved most.

The thing was his smile, which stopped Sherlock’s thought process, no matter what he had been doing, for several seconds. He had been close enough to death and close enough to lose John, too, to not appreciate the smiles he was occasionally awarded with. When John smiled he always wondered if it would be the last time, the last time someone, no, John, would smile at him. So he recorded each one, carefully stored away in a file labelled John Watson’s smiles, as if each one might be the very last one that made his heart beat faster and his stomach clench and his ears hot. 

It was his hands that cleaned his wounds, that patched him up, that covered John’s mouth when he yawned at 5 am after yet another all-nighter. The gentle pressure against his shoulder when he was lost in thought and John needed him to come back to him. His hands, wrapped around a mug of tea, or his wrist when he tried to pull him away from danger or irritation. 

It wasn’t his worry. John worried about him all the time. It was in John’s nature. He was responsible for him, at least that was how John felt, not understanding that Sherlock felt the same, but that he was incapable of taking care of another person, never mind himself. 

It wasn’t his anger. John was constantly angry. With him and his experiments, with his lack of altruism and empathy, with his tendency to underestimate danger. 

No. It was mostly his laughter, and, to a smaller extent, his smile. John laughed at Sherlock’s words, especially when they were rude. He had tried to be sensible, but John’s humour had won out. He loved how macabre Sherlock could be, how offensive, how different. John laughed when nobody else did. 

Sherlock remembered painfully how John had giggled on the night of their first case – the night John had saved his life and Sherlock still felt a sharp flash of guilt in his guts when he thought of that night because he had never thanked John properly for it. But now, just now, thinking about that night did not cause his stomach to drop, but it filled him with energy. Raw, red, burning energy that he desperately needed to get rid of before he let go of it with John in the same room. 

The drugs helped, usually. But he never truly knew what he did after an injection. It was not always the case that he remained at home, and more than once he had gained consciousness, knowing that he had been touched by someone. Someone who wasn’t John. 

He never hated himself more than he did then. 

And now John held the drugs in his hands. The syringe, the glass bottle, the string with which he trapped the blood in his arm. His excuse. His escape. 

He had not said a word since Sherlock had come home and found him there, in his chair, staring at the wooden box and its contents. 

Sherlock had, for a short moment, dared to hope that John hadn’t opened it. That he was simply curious as to what the old fashioned wooden box was doing in his desk. But a moment later he had met his eyes and he knew that John knew. 

Or at least, he had a theory. 

“Why?” he asked, finally, his voice flat, disappointed. Or more?

Sherlock inhaled deeply, unable to turn around for fear of what he would do. Of what John would do. 

_Because you are gone. Because you left me. I came back for you, but you were gone._

“Sherlock?” More. Definitely more.

_Because I did what I had to do to come back to you and you were gone._

“Why?”

“My mind rebels at stagnation …”

“Oh, bullshit, Sherlock!” John was up, the box forgotten on the table and John’s warmth so close he could feel it seep through the air towards him. He wondered if he would hit him. 

John’s hand burned him even through his shirt. It took all he had not to flinch at it. He held his breath instead. 

“You could have told me.”

_I really couldn’t._

“You could have told me that you missed me.”

 _What_ “What?”

Sherlock froze, John’s hand on his shoulder the only thing he could still feel. 

“I’m not blind, Sherlock. Or stupid.”

Sherlock tried to move, or breathe, or burst through the window to escape the feeling of utter despair. A second, maybe two, and John would walk out of the door. Possibly forever.

“I understand that you are not like anyone else, and that your ways are unconventional. But this, this is impossible.”

There it was. For years Sherlock had dreaded this moment. And yet, at least John’s hand was still on his shoulder and his smiles were catalogued and tucked away for eternity in his mind palace. 

“I’m here, don’t you see? I’m right here.”

“You’re not,” Sherlock’s voice sounded nothing like himself. “You’re not here.”

“But I am. Just a few moments away. All you have to do is call. And you didn’t call. You never call.”

An accusation. He could live with an accusation. 

“You’re married.”

“It doesn’t change anything.”

Sherlock’s legs threatened to give out, so he took a step to the side, outside of John’s reach. “It changes everything!”

“Are you jealous?” John seemed truly surprised. How could he be surprised?

Sherlock recoiled internally, hating the word even more than the burning factuality of it. 

_I’m lonely._

_You’re not here anymore._

_You’ve moved on. Why did I come back?_

“Sherlock? Talk to me!”

“Are you angry?” He had not meant to ask. He had not meant to speak at all. 

“Of course I am. You cannot risk destroying your brain for a cheap rush.”

“It’s not cheap,” Sherlock answered, his words tasting foreign on his tongue. Even more so since he knew he was hurting John with them. 

Suddenly, he wanted to unsay them. Take them back. Swallow them and never allow them to be spoken aloud. He had swallowed so many words, why had these escaped?

“Are you doing this to punish me?”

He sounded sad and resigned. Sherlock wanted his hand back on his shoulder. That, or the box. 

“Not you.” Again, he had not meant to speak; or to sound so breathless. 

“You?” John asked, suddenly behind him again, two hands settling on his shoulders, pushing and pulling until he found himself confronted with everything he wanted. 

John. 

“Why?”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“Tell you.”

“Why not.”

“Because you know already. You’ve always known.”

“What? What are you talking about, Sherlock? Do you have a medical condition I never knew about? Sherlock, are you okay?”

“No.” He did not have it in him to be more specific. But it answered all of John’s questions.

John stared at him and Sherlock wondered if he’d ever be privy to another smile. 

“Talk to me, Sherlock! Do you have any idea how frustrating this is?”

_Oh, I know._

“Stop thinking, Sherlock. Tell me. Why did you take drugs?”

“Because I need them to stop … to stop … to stop…”

“Stop what? Your mind? Your brain? What happened to you, Sherlock? What did they do to you while you were away?”

_Not them, John. Not them. They couldn’t touch me._

“Sherlock!” John took him roughly by the arms, shaking him in frustration. 

“Not them, you!” he burst out, too loud. Panicked. 

“Stop _me_?” John was hurt, now that he knew for certain. 

“I miss you. I needed to stop missing you.” Sherlock was already pulling back, mentally, disappearing in his mind, wishing he had not said anything. 

Silence. The opposite of what he wanted, but at least John’s hands still gripped his arms. 

Sherlock wondered whether anyone had ever wanted John Watson as much as he wanted him. 

“But I’m here.” John carefully repeated his words, searching for understanding in Sherlock’s eyes.

“No,” Sherlock shook his head. “You are not. Your clothes are gone, most of them anyway. Your chair is always empty and there is only ever one cup of tea …” he swallowed against the sudden restriction in his throat. “The drugs help me forget.”

John inhaled deeply, his expression more worried than Sherlock could remember seeing him. “Did you want me to find this?” he gestured at the box. “Because it seems like you did.”

Sherlock shook his head. 

“You know that this is fucked up, right?”

Sherlock stopped shaking his head, but he did not go as far as to agree with John. 

“You can’t just do that to me. You are punishing me for having my own life.”

Sherlock shook his head again, more adamantly this time. “No! John, no. You were never supposed to know.”

“Know what?” John’s face was very close to Sherlock’s and he closed his eyes, trying to drag his thoughts away from the place they were pushing him towards. And yet, when he opened them again, they settled on John’s lips. 

They were pressed together, angry; angry enough to form a half smile that Sherlock knew spelled danger, even if most people mistook it for amusement. When he finally convinced his body to listen to him again and his eyes moved to meet John’s, he could see that his theory had become certainty. 

“That I’m an addict.” He was shaking now, feeling the withdrawal from a week’s worth of small doses of cocaine. 

“You have no idea what you are doing to me,” John bit out angrily, letting go of him completely, his hands held up in defeat. “You make me feel like shit for this. For mourning you. For moving on. For finally getting my head around the fact that you are gone and when I finally manage to get my shit together you just show up and expect me to go back to how it was before?”

“I couldn’t come back before,” Sherlock saw his chance and tried to grasp it with both hands. “You weren’t safe!”

“What? Sherlock. Nothing happened to me after you were gone. I wasn’t threatened, I did not even get into an accident. Your brother stopped showing up and Greg only ever talked rugby with me when we saw each other.”

“Exactly,” he stepped closer to John, crowding in on him, too needy now to watch for warning signs.

John squared his shoulders. “Explain.” 

The last time Sherlock had tried to explain, John had wrestled him to the ground in three different restaurants. And yet, Sherlock realized that he would gladly risk a fourth time. He knew that John had only started talking to him again because of Mary. For that, he would be eternally grateful to her; despite the scar in his chest and the much more severe one in his heart. 

“They knew that the only way to get to me would be by hurting the people …” he sniffed, avoiding John’s glare, “… the people I love. I knew you would never be safe until I had dismantled Moriarty’s entire network. They all knew that you were the target, and they would not have hesitated to kill you had they believed that I was still alive. Any contact and you would have been killed. I had to …”

“Sherlock?” John sounded less angry now and Sherlock dared to look at him again. “When you say _you_?”

“You,” Sherlock frowned. “Well, my friends. My only friends. Lestrade.” 

John’s face was carefully blank as if he was unsure yet how to react. 

“Mrs Hudson. And you. They missed Molly. That is why she was able to help me, but …”

“And they just welcomed you back with open arms whereas I …” John was angry again and Sherlock felt the icy burn of panic rise in him again. “And now you destroy yourself so I get to suffer again. See you die, again. Sherlock, have you ever, for one single moment, taken the time to think about the fact that your death almost killed me? And it wasn’t Moriarty or any of his psychopathic friends that did it. It was you. Jumping off that roof right in front of me. I still dream of it, Sherlock. Every night I see you fall. Every night!”

Suddenly John’s hands were holding the collar of his shirt and he was shaking him, tearing at him, properly angry now. But then he gasped and his legs gave in and he clung to Sherlock, almost taking him down to the floor with him.

Shocked, Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him. He had never touched him like this. Never held him this tightly. He had never felt his face pressed against his chest, angry sobs shaking his shoulders while he clung to him weakly. And he had never felt more at a loss as to what to do.

“I’m sorry,” he tried, “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t …there wasn’t … it was the only way. You had to think that I had died. They would have known. They would have hurt you.”

“Fuck you, Sherlock!” John tried to pull away from him, but Sherlock still held him and he was too shocked, still, to let him go. John struggled for a moment before he resigned himself to staying pressed against Sherlock. “What you did was so much worse than anything they could have done to me.”

Sherlock’s hands dropped to his sides. He felt as if all the air had left the room and his heart hurt worse than after the defibrillator had started it again after Mary had shot him. 

This time, it was John who held him tightly. There were no tears, because there was not enough air to even take a deep breath to start crying. 

“Sherlock!” John’s voice was simultaneously a warning and a distraction. “Sherlock, stay with me, do you hear? Sherlock!”

Pain exploded in his head when he tried to open his eyes. The paramedics were just about to leave when John called them back. 

“He’s conscious.” John sat down next to him, touching his forehead as if to check for fever and then his throat to check his pulse. “He’s back.”

The next words blurred together with too much light and too much warmth and too much of everything.

When he opened his eyes again, it was much darker in the room, but it was still warm. Sherlock inhaled deeply, testing his lungs, finding to his infinite relief that nothing was obstructing his breathing before he turned on his side, weakly looking around in the room. 

John sat in his chair, which he had moved closer to the couch, watching him calmly. His eyes were red, but it might just be because he was tired. Then Sherlock remembered that he had cried. 

“You can’t keep doing this,” he eventually said. "I can’t do this if you keep up your self-destructive behavior.”

“Can’t do what?” he cleared his throat, trying to sound less scared. John was still there and judging by the way he sat in his chair he was not about to storm off. Sherlock exhaled shakily. “I’m sorry.”

“I need to know that you are okay without me.” John leaned forward, folding his hands to rest his chin on them. 

“I’m not okay without you,” Sherlock said quietly. It was the truth. 

“But I’m not dead, Sherlock. You can always call. You can always tell me when you need me to listen to you or if you want my opinion or if you just want to talk. But I can’t be there for you if you make it impossible.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Well, yes. It’s not. But we move on, Sherlock. We all do. And you have to move on, too.”

“Not from this,” Sherlock whispered. 

“What?” John got up and sat down on the coffee table. Three feet between their faces and Sherlock’s entire body yearned for him. 

“I can’t,” Sherlock shook his head. “I can’t move on from this.”

“What’s this?” John asked, frowning again. It wasn’t angry anymore. It was John genuinely trying to understand Sherlock. Another thing about him which Sherlock loved. 

“You.” 

There it was. Out in the open. Sherlock started shaking again, but he knew it had nothing to do with the drugs this time. Well, at least not the ones he used to forget the one he truly needed. 

John shook his head. “It’s too late, Sherlock.” His voice sounded flat, as if he recited something he had often practiced. 

“But Mary knows,” Sherlock tried, knowing it was the wrong thing to say. 

John swallowed hard and said nothing for a long time. This was not how Sherlock had imagined this conversation to go. He had never let himself visualise the whole scenario, too scared to imagine John falling into his arms, relief and love driving him to kiss him first. And yet, the need was there - the need to imagine what it would feel like, on a baser level than intelligent thought. How often had he woken up, his lips tingling from a dreamed kiss. 

Those had been the mornings when the syringe had served its purpose best.

“What do you mean?” John finally spoke up again and Sherlock sniffed. 

“At your wedding,” Sherlock rubbed his face. “She said something about Sholto. That he was your first?”

John stared at him, his ears going red. 

“No,” Sherlock shook his head. “That’s not what she said. I was being … difficult because you were so happy to see him.” 

The blush spread from John’s ears to his face. 

“And Mary teased me, saying that neither of us had been your first.” He felt his own face burn when he remembered the implication in Mary’s voice. She must have known from the day he had surprised them in the restaurant. The way she had watched John’s reaction, without any jealousy. If what John said was right and he had mourned him as deeply as Sherlock mourned his loss now, and Mary had known about it, then she knew what John meant to Sherlock. And what he meant to John. 

“How did she know?” John asked, but it wasn’t a real question. “I never told her…”

 _About Sholto? About me?_ Sherlock’s heart suddenly took up speed and he felt slightly ill. “Neither did I.” 

“Sherlock.” John started, but then he did not say anything else.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Sherlock said quietly. “The drugs don’t really help.”

For the first time in a long time, John seemed to remember why they were even having this conversation. “So you will stop taking them?”

Sherlock huffed. “I don’t know if I can.”

“You know I can’t come back.”

“But you did. You moved back in when Mary…”

“I haven’t forgiven her.”

“I have.”

“I haven’t forgiven you either, Sherlock. Not really. I don’t think I will ever be able to.”

“Is that why?”

“Why what?” 

“Why you won’t come back?”

“I can’t, Sherlock.”

“She would understand.”

“But you wouldn’t.”

Sherlock sat up, frowning. “What?”

“How much I need you.”

Sherlock looked at him, frozen. “What?” He thought of earlier. Of the moment when he had found John in the flat, unannounced, angry. He had been so preoccupied with thinking about John and how obvious he must have been about how he felt, wondering how long it would take John to figure him out, that he had ignored John’s enquiries – his questions about his motives and the desperation when he finally understood why Sherlock had disappeared. 

“I couldn’t go back to how it was even if I tried. It’s not who I am anymore.”

“But … when you moved in again last year. It was …”

“I checked on you every night to see whether you were still there and whether you were still alive.”

“You did?”

John nodded, rubbing his forehead as if he was embarrassed by his confession. “And then you shot Magnussen. That changed things.”

“But I came back.”

John huffed. “Well yes. But you had killed a man to protect me.”

“I had to.”

“I know,” John laughed a humourless laugh. “I know how that feels.”

“You shot the cabbie.”

John nodded. “But that was before I knew you properly. Before you shot Magnussen, you … he said I was your pressure point.”

Sherlock felt very calm all of the sudden. “He was right. But you know that. You always knew …”

John shook his head. “I didn’t. Not until the wedding.”

“The pool?”

John’s eyes widened. “I thought he was playing with you. He lied about everything, why should he be honest about that?”

Sherlock shrugged. “You did not say anything. I thought you simply wanted to avoid talking about it altogether so I never initiated …”

“What?” John sounded a little breathless and Sherlock sat up properly, carefully placing his naked feet on the carpet. 

“The conversation?” Sherlock tried, watching John lick his lips nervously. “John!”

“Hmm?”

“What are we doing here?”

“I don’t know.” John admitted. “I was going to tell you off for taking drugs.”

“That’s not why you came.”

“No.”

“Why are you here?”

“I needed to see you.”

“Why?”

John huffed and scratched his neck nervously, giving Sherlock another little endearing movement to carefully place in his mental folder of things he loved about him. 

“Because I missed you.”

“John?”

“I wanted to make sure that you are okay.”

“I’m clearly not.”

John frowned. “Clearly.”

“I can’t help it, John.”

“Would it help if I came by more often?”

After the onslaught of confusing emotions, Sherlock felt a profound sense of sadness. “I don’t know.”

“I can’t lose you again.”

“Then stay.”

“I can’t. If I do, I’ll never get over you.”

Sherlock stared at him, feeling strangely numb. 

“You don’t have to.”

“I lost you too often already. I can’t do it again. Especially not now that I know…”

“Know what?”

John inhaled deeply and shook his head. “I need to go.”

“I love you.” It escaped Sherlock before he could stop himself. 

“I know,” John stood up, his jaw set tightly. 

“Please,” Sherlock tried to will John to stay. To come back to him. To touch him again.

“I love you, too, Sherlock. I have, for a long time. But it’s too late now.”

“How can you say that?” 

“I’m married, Sherlock. I have a family.”

“But you just said that you love me.”

“More than anything.”

“Please stay?”

“I’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll see if I can find you some cases. Get some rest and take a shower, Sherlock.”

The flat seemed infinitely darker once John had closed the door on his way out. 

John did not come back on the next day and Sherlock knew why. It had been easier than saying good bye. Lestrade tried to get him on a case but Sherlock’s thoughts drifted off when a man walked past who wore John’s aftershave, so he was sent home. After that, Lestrade called him once a day to check on him. They never talked about John. 

Two weeks later Sherlock could not take it any longer and began looking for the wooden box. He had no memory of where he had put it after John had walked out on him. After he had checked in every cupboard and book shelf, under every sheet of paper and magazine, he understood that John must have taken it. 

He had his phone in his hand before he realised what he was doing but hung up before John could answer. 

For three days the thought of John’s worry for him kept him sane, but eventually he began missing him so much that he felt physically sick, so he called one of his dealers and pulled on his coat. He needed to stock up on supplies and he needed a new syringe. It wouldn’t be cheap, but at least he could be free from pain for a while. 

He rushed down the stairs, invigorated by the hope of impending relief, and pulled the door open forcefully, finding John standing outside, a large bag in each hand and a strange expression on his face. 

“John?” Sherlock asked, unhelpfully. 

“Can I come in?” he asked. He sounded as if he was barely holding himself together and Sherlock stepped back quickly, making room for him. 

“It’s just for a while…a few days…”

Sherlock closed the door and leaned against it. 

He watched John carry the bags upstairs. His limp was back. Not as badly as it had been back when they had met, but still obvious. 

Sherlock followed him up the stairs and quietly closed the door to the living room, too, trying not to draw attention to the fact that he was effectively blocking John’s escape route. 

“What happened?” he asked, shaking his head, because he had meant to ask so many other questions. 

“Mary kicked me out.”

“Of your house?”

John nodded. “I broke a plate.”

Sherlock watched him closely. 

“Well, more than one plate, actually.”

“So you have come to break ours?” Sherlock asked before he could stop himself. 

John stared at him for a long moment. Then he dropped the bags and rushed forward and for one second Sherlock wondered whether he should duck or at least protect his face, but John stopped before he reached him, breathing heavily, tears running down his face silently. 

“You’re still alive,” he said, his hand moving up just to stop an inch from his chest. 

“Barely,” Sherlock breathed, stepping forward, feeling elated when John did not pull his hand back and instead pressed it against Sherlock’s scar. Or his heart. Sherlock wasn’t quite sure. “You took my syringe.”

“I apologise. I had no right.”

“No!” Sherlock shook his head. “No, you did the right thing. If you hadn’t, I …”

“I’m sorry,” John frowned and wiped at his face. “I shouldn’t have left you …”

“Why have you come here?” Sherlock asked, trusting John’s hand against his chest, but not his words.

“I told you.”

“Your wife kicked you out because you broke your china.”

“Well …”

“Why did you not go to a hotel?”

“I almost hurt her and …it was almost as bad as it was after she had shot you. Thank god Mina wasn’t there.”

“You packed all of your clothes.” He ignored the burning sensation in his heart at the mention of John’s baby daughter.

“You said there weren’t enough of them in this flat.” John looked at him, a gleam in his eye making Sherlock’s heart beat faster. 

“Are you going to stay?”

“I don’t know.”

“John. Are you going to stay?” Sherlock knew that John could feel his rapid heartbeat against his fingers. “Please stay?”

“I never truly understood, you know?” John’s hand moved from his chest towards his collar bone and up until he could take hold of his shirt collar. “That admitting to an addiction does not make quitting easier. It adds more pressure, so you try harder.”

“Did you tell her?” Sherlock wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch John, too, but he did not dare. 

“She knew the minute I came back. She took Mina to your parents and told me to figure it out.”

“Did you?”

John shook his head. “No.”

Sherlock nodded, his hopes slowly dissipating. 

“That’s why I need your help.”

“How?” Sherlock asked. 

John looked at him as if he had missed a vital piece of information. Then he stepped forward, crowding him against the door, taking hold of his collar properly and pulling him in for a chaste kiss. 

A bright spark shot down Sherlock’s spine and a moment later he felt dizzy and slightly sick. And yet, as soon as John pulled back, he knew he had found his new drug of choice, and a few kisses later, he knew that he had never been as addicted to anything as to kissing John Watson. 

Kissing and touching John was a dangerous drug, because it made him forget what he had been doing or thinking, and occasionally he yearned for it so much that he had to leave a crime scene to find John and get a fix. But while this addiction was definitely more dangerous than his cocaine habit had been, because he was too emotionally invested in his supply, he found that it was one of the most life affirming addictions as well. And John seemed to be as badly affected by it as he was. 

Sherlock knew he had to thank Mary once again for making John change his mind about him a second time, but he figured that since she had shot and almost killed him, she owed both him and John some happiness. 

It was complicated and messy, and John still doubted his decision every now and then, but he returned home to Baker Street every night, even if he had spent the day with his daughter and occasionally his ex-wife. 

And Sherlock still stood by the window every now and then, cataloguing the things he loved about John Watson. Happily enough, he never had to close the door on the ever growing library in his mind palace, as each day a new item was carefully sorted into one of the many folders, crates and binders that had John Watson’s name on them.


End file.
